An Unexpected Hero
by charlemagnebrat1
Summary: Regulus survives. The world changes. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Cave

Regulus felt the clammy touch surround him as he was dragged into the depths. He was strangely calm, and did not struggle as the water covered his head, refraining from breathing. He had done his part now, now he could rest. He opened his mouth and filled himself with liquid. That gulp slaked his thirst; his eyes settled to the back of his head. Gracefully he turned, his hair awhirl in the water, as the dead hands continued to push him down. The visage of a small girl stared murkily at him through the dark.

'_Do it, Reg, come on!' Through the masks the voices shouted for blood._

'_Do it, do it, do it,' The chant bore into his brain as he attempted to articulate the curse. The half-blood scum- the daughter of a bull-headed Auror, not worth a look from one of his blood- gazed at him silently._

_One of the group let out a loud sigh and placed her hands upon her hips._

'_Reggie, too scared? Reggie-weggie, too wowwied?' She spoke in a sickening, babyish voice that was made perversely sexual by her rotating curves. She pushed Regulus to the side and he fell to the floor. Off the carpet, he saw a flash of light and a grotesquely pitiful body convulse and twitch as the sounds of mirth filled the air._

Another corpse neared, this time that of a strong man in his prime.

'_Do you think this will make you a hero, Regulus? Murder, torture- Mother must be so proud.'_

No, receiving the Mark didn't make him a hero, but this would.

'_You think yourself a hero, now, a martyr? You're not a hero- you're too weak even to live. The secret will die with you and mean nothing.'_

No, Kreacher has it, Kreacher will destroy it. Good Kreacher, kindly Kreacher, always looked up to him. A little kindness, a wonderful friend.

'_That's hilarious, Reg. It took that scumbag's near death to realise that the Dark Lord wasn't all purity and virtue. Kreacher, destroy it? He's a house-elf, geddit? He can't destroy something like this, too weak, like you.'_

He's not weak- I'm not weak. It will be destroyed.

'_Then go do it.'_

Regulus summoned his last dregs of energy, pushed a rotting arm away from his, and reached for his wand.

'Levicorpus!'


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own it, I'm not making any money out of it, blah di blah di blah.

* * *

Chapter 2: 12 Grimmauld Place

Regulus slid down the silk wall, staining it a dull red.

_Inferi. Fear. Sinking. Levicorpus! Levicorpus! How does one hover? Need a broom. Argh, argh, sinking, cold flesh. Fire! Inferno inferno inferno- why won't it work? Boat jump zoom zoom zoom muggle photograph-box inferno inferno propelling the boat shriek blood blood run out sky grey open wonderful_

How did he survive? Where did he gain such strength? Fragments of the past events galloped through his mind unconnected with one another. It was almost as if it had not been he who fought off those corpses, not he who collapsed weeping outside the cave and jumped and leapt down the cliffs with tears in his eyes. These were the actions of a madman, a screaming berserker. Not he. Someone from a book, perhaps. Yes, he was still in his library.

Damn. Blood. He'd die here instead. A better death, at least. His body might even be found. A tombstone in the family plot. Cissy would visit. Sirius might visit. Once. But it seemed too much of an anticlimax to die now, besides, he wasn't even that wounded. It would be far too common for one of his ances-

'Master Regulus! Master Regulus is hurt!'

'Kreacher...' Regulus half-opened his eyes to the elf's anxious face. The house-elf arms were covered with rags tied together, dirty and stained, quite unlike his usual garb. 'Your arms,'

'Kreacher tried to destroy Master Regulus' locket, he did he did, he failed, Kreacher failed in his orders-'

'You punished yourself.' Regulus had always hated it when Kreacher hit himself, or tried to cook his own feet. It made him feel remarkably guilty for being the cause of that pain and think that he should self-harm as well, to atone for his, greater, sins. The voice resurfaced.

_Kreacher, destroy it? He's a house-elf, geddit? He can't destroy something like this, too weak, like you.'_

'Shut up.'

'Kreacher will be quiet. Kreacher is sorry for his noisiness and will not speak any-'

'No, sorry, not you Kreacher. Please don't punish yourself. Ermm... could you tidy my wounds...please?' Regulus didn't know why he added 'please'. Kreacher was only an elf. However, after the cave, Regulus felt uncomfortable treating Kreacher as an inferior.

_That's because you're just as inferior as he is. Weak. But he's all you have left now, isn't he? Everyone who ever gave a tiny rat's arse about you is dead, deserted or Death Eater._

Sirius...

_He values tiny rats' arses far too highly._

The voice was obviously referring to that occasion in Hogsmeade one winter when Sirius had slammed Regulus' upper body against the Hog's Head several times for tripping over a rat. Incomprehensible bloody hypocrite.

Regulus gradually became aware of Kreacher pulling at his elbows in an attempt to cause him to rise.

'Master Regulus must get up! Kreacher must tend to the wounds on his back.'

Of course, when you're a raving lunatic shooting flames at zombies in order to propel a boat, you'd have some back wounds. Regulus rolled over and shut his eyes. Strange, the more able he was to sleep (he was now lying on his front like a floundered dolphin, relatively safe in his house) the more clearly he could think. How would he plan his next move?

To clarify, who could he go to who would not kill him on sight? Cissy? No, there was Lucius. One of his friends, perhaps, Barty or Thomas Avery.

_They're loyal to the Dark Lord. Once you're in you can't get out. Besides, would you really be so selfish to ruin their lives for yours? Besides, have they ever really been your friends? They wanted to say they knew a Black. They wanted your darling cousin Bella to take note of them. They wanted someone to push around._

Siri- No. Definite No. Truly, he was alone.

'Kreacher has bandaged Master Regulus and sewn him up with clean thread, but Master Regulus must not rip his stitches. Is Master Regulus hungry, thirsty? Kreacher knows Master Regulus is not in his best noble state, Kreacher has been neglectful,'

'Water,' Regulus croaked. That potion- a fluid Dementor- was only gradually wearing off, though he must have swallowed several pints in that dreadful lake.

The first thing to do, would be to destroy the locket. The Dark Lord clearly valued it. Then find out its true meaning somehow, read about it or ask someone- no, he would be alone in this. Next, send the broken object to somebody important, with a note saying Reg did it, Reg is good, protect Reg, and hope for the best. For now, drink, then sleep. He was safe in his house. It was so protected, not even the Dark Lord could enter.

Would Cissy think that he was dead? Would the Dark Lord? Unconsciously, he glanced worriedly at his left wrist, and snorted. A strip of flesh, from the palm of his left hand to the middle of his upper arm, had been torn off. Wonderful. The Dark Mark had been ripped away, put asunder as a symbol of his new-found freedom. Brilliant. Hopefully, the Dark Lord would assume he was dead- his Mark was dead. Regulus bent his head to lick at the salty exposed muscle.

'Master Regulus will get infected! Master Regulus must not rip his stitches!' Good old Kreacher. The house-elf lifted his head and began to pour a little water, drop by drop, onto his lips. It tasted so sweet and Regulus stuck out his tongue for more. Kreacher held Regulus' head close to his own thin body as he positioned the crystal glass at a specific angle and quenched Regulus' thirst as a mother would a child's.

'Good Kreacher.' Regulus finished drinking and sank into oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I didn't write it, I don't own it, et cetera, et cetera.

* * *

Chapter 3: The McKinnons

It was a chill spring night and four young men sat cordially playing poker in a cosy cottage room near a warm, crackling fire.

'Four Kings! Wooooo! In your face, James!' Sirius chortled as he reached for his winnings.

'A little mercy, Padfoot. I'll soon have a family to support.' James pouted and stuck out his lip, and Sirius groaned and pushed half the pile back. This act was unnecessary, of course- Prongs had pots of money- the four knew that, but Sirius allowed James to act the child in the name of fun. His parents (old, but possessing such vitality that Sirius had thought they'd go on forever) had recently been killed, and since Lily had started getting bigger, her endless loving sympathy when James came to her whinging and speaking in a sweetened voice had dried up. The honeymoon period was most definitely over.

There was a loud noise rather like a sneeze and a shining Patronus of a phoenix emerged from the cloud of green smoke that was billowing from the ornate fireplace. The men turned.

'Raid at the McKinnons'. All active members group at Headquarters.'

'Should you leave Lily a note?'

'No need. We'll be back before morning.'

Lily knew where he would be, really. In danger. But honestly, what could he write on a bloody note?

* * *

Another curse lit up the Muggle street. The Obliviators would have a long day tomorrow. Sirius muttered a quick prayer, hoping that whatever gods there were would make sure the Muggles stayed asleep and did not venture out to see what all the racket was about. He rolled across the pavement and took shelter behind a telephone box. He called to his partner-in-crime, who was currently leaning against a porch, shielded from the spectrum of deadly light.

'Oi, James! Ready to rumble?'

'Ready as ever, Pads. Let's show those scumbags what we're made of.'

Together they ran towards the McKinnons' house, ducking and diving, leaping over boxes and overturned gates.

The house was situated at the bottom of a hill, in a large and well-to-do village. Earlier that night, a cluster of cloaked men had gathered there and walked towards the gate before bouncing back, as if repelled by an invisible membrane. Whereupon several more figures had appeared at the summit of the hill, and attempted to race downwards.

Sirius reached the penultimate house and started to shoot Stunners in front of him. One of the Death Eaters had penetrated the house's barrier and had advanced towards a window. A young woman emerged, wand blazing, and quickly fell. Sirius let out a great bellow and, forgetting his own safety, went charging at the covered attacker. She (and it was now clearly a she from this distance, the shape of the waist was unmistakeable) coolly pivoted and pointed her wand at his nose. Sirius halted in fear. He knew who it was.

'Cousin of mine, you've been naughty.'

'Go to hell, Lestrange.'

'You'll never guess what news I've just heard. A death. Someone close to you, I'm told. Or perhaps not that close.'

'Marlene. You bitch. You've killed Marlene.'

'Have I? I really didn't notice. But no, someone else. What was his name, now...' Bellatrix Lestrange tapped her chin with her left index finger, keeping her wand on Sirius. He knew that one wrong move and he'd be slaughtered, instantly. His only chance was to keep her talking.

'Ah, yes. Little Reggie. Heard it just this afternoon. Our Lord blessed me with the honour of spreading the good news. Died a traitor's death, but of course, what could one expect from someone who grew up with you?'

Sirius opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. A shout echoed from the left, and Lestrange swivelled to hear.

'Another time, dear cousin.' She disapparated with a quiet pop.

James almost skidded into Sirius. 'Marlene, those children, how are they?' Kingsley Shacklebolt soon followed.

'I'll check upstairs, James.' His calm, deep voice brought Sirius partly back to reality.

'Marlene- fell there.' He pointed to the body, and Kingsley knelt down beside the woman.

'Stunned. Still breathing. She'll need to go to St Mungo's though, she's badly hurt.'

'Pads and I can do that, can't we Pads?'

'Sure. Mungo's. Yeah.' Sirius lifted up Marlene's legs and they popped away.

* * *

Why he was at the Hog's Head, Regulus was unsure. He had definitely come here, disguised of course, to hear the local gossip, as that was where several members of the Death Eaters routinely went to chat over some smoking drinks, but several drinks and no information later he had grown steadily more uncertain and disorientated. He was wearing a dark blue cloak. Was he a Ravenclaw? He didn't remember being sorted so.

What Regulus was most interested in hearing about was the Death Eaters' reactions to his disappearance. Was there a price on his head? Or was he assumed dead, as he had hoped before? He rubbed his arm, which Kreacher had so tenderly treated.

The locket hung around his neck, hidden inside his cloak. It did not warm, but sucked the heat from his body. He had tried to destroy it- tried! He had become downright hysterical, distressing Kreacher to tears by bashing it against a wall and poking it over a blue flame in the kitchen. It had remained cold and perfect throughout.

He signalled to the barman, who slammed another dirty glass in front of him, snatching his proffered Sickles. A sound pinched his ears from behind.

'Stuff it. He's dead, that's it. Done and dusted.'

'I know, but

'He was a traitor. Our Lord said so.'

'Will you attend the funeral?'

'There's no corpse that I heard of. Blood-traitors don't deserve funerals or gravestones, especially not in his plot. Bloody bastards.'

'Barty, he was Reg. He was small, and stupid.'

That reference was not to Regulus' height, which was technically above average, nor to his posture or build, which was slight but not skeletonous. It was due to his habitual boyishness, his sickliness and bloody weakness. Child. Little one.

'A traitor. He was never our friend. Never, Thomas. Remember that.' Regulus gingerly turned towards the conversation, his face veiled by the rough navy cloak. Barty's hood had fallen, revealing his straw hair which glowed in the dark like a slipped halo. His tongue had started to dart out of his mouth. In. Out. In. Out.

'You goin' to pay for that, or what?' The barman had reappeared, the stench of goats marking his trail.

'Oh, yes, here.' Fumbling for more change, Regulus took great care not to let his left sleeve slip up. The barman grunted.

''M not a y'know.'

'I don't.'

''M not. Y'know.' For some reason it seemed terribly important that this grimy man stinking of animal sweat understood. 'Look!' Regulus held up his left arm and pulled his sleeve down. 'No Mark. 'M a free man. Free man.' An odd hacking sound, a rough and painful giggle, emerged from his throat.

'It's gone, alright, but death's the only escape from that lot.'

''Em dead. Yam dead. Ask 'em, over there. Yam dead.' Regulus in a half-dazed way noticed that his refined diction, which had been burnt into his skull by a regular shock of a wand thwacked onto his fingertips, had grown slurred and quite unlike his usual manner.

'If you're dead, what're you doing in my bar?' Regulus gulped down another Firewhiskey and leaned forward.

'It's a secret.' Regulus smiled childishly, as if this was something delicious. 'Dark Lord- I've got something he wants. Very special.'

'Summat that special, eh? Why don't you come upstairs, and warm yourself by my fire. I'd like to help.' The old man's piercing eyes reassured Regulus and made him feel very comforted. Going with that man seemed a lovely idea. Led by the barman's hand, Regulus stumbled behind the counter and up a rickety staircase, nearly tripping on the third step, and lay down on the thin carpet, before shuffling closer to the fire. He felt bile in his throat, and retched. The barman turned the youth's head, emptying the vomit from it, then stood, wiped his hands, and tapped his wand to his own throat.

'Albus, I've found someone I think you ought to see.'


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Honestly, it's not mine, sir.

* * *

Chapter 4: Sirius' Flat

* * *

It was James who accompanied Sirius back to his flat, of course. Poor Pads had hardly spoken since he'd muttered his piece at the de-briefing.

They had handed Marlene over to the Healers at St Mungo's who had rushed to find her a bed. She still hadn't woken up, after several _Enervates, _but the Healers retained hope. It was probably concussion, they reassured the two, hurrying them away from the busy ward, it can be that way after a powerful spell. They had taken Sirius' dumbstruck expression to mean that he was particularly fond of Ms McKinnon, and one kind trainee had brought him a cup of tea. James had stared pointedly at the tea but was ignored. All the Healers were rushed off their feet- they always were, now.

James sat on Sirius' table and glanced at his friend, who had sat on his bare floorboards and was now stabilising his head on his neck, afraid it would fall off. 'Pads, what's the fuss? Marlene's going to be alright, they're sure.' Did his friend, Padfoot the player, have a special thing for Marlene?

'No, I saw Lestrange, Bellatrix-'

'Oh Merlin, you weren't tortured were you?'

'No, jeez Prongs. It's...' Sirius broke off and resumed staring at his floorboards. James reflected on how unusual, or rather, how unusually usual Sirius' flat was.

Most people believed that Sirius' place would in some way reflect his personality. Girls imagined bright colours, red and gold and blue and yellow. Younger men in the Order pictured a bachelor's pad covered with posters of naked whores and motorbikes. Even James himself, before Sirius had first shown him his flat, had envisioned a warm place strewn with whirring machines and multitudinous Quidditch scarves (for Sirius was as inconstant with Quidditch teams as he was with women).

However, it was wholly bare. There was a bed, a small gas-fired stove, and a sofa set patterned in that annoyingly hypnotic geometric style. Nevertheless, there was no junk, no mementoes gathered over time. There was one small photograph pinned onto the wall: four teenagers, with their arms over each others' shoulders. This was a two-room suite where someone slept, sporadically, and kept half a carton of milk. This was where Sirius fetched his toothbrush from when he accepted James' offers to stay in the guest room at Godric's Hollow another night.

'Reg, oh Reg,' Sirius groaned, a long, stretched-out sound.

'Did you see him?'

'No, but Bella... he's dead.' Sirius knew what James was thinking. Death Eater. Good riddance. But he also knew that James knew that he wouldn't want to hear that right now.

'You got any Firewhiskey?'

'No, just milk.' James opened the refrigerator and took it out. He poured some into two mugs and sat down beside Sirius. Sirius took the proffered mug and emptied it into his mouth.

'Merlin, Prongs. This is rancid.'

'Closest thing to alcohol we've got. You want to talk?'

'Nah, but – '

'You want me to- ' James was interrupted by the head of his wife surfacing from the stove.

'JAMES POTTER!'

'What is troubling you, my dear sweet Lilykins?'

'Where HAVE you been? No note, no husband, what was I to think?'

'I was needed, flower, there wasn't time- '

'You're coming home, right now, and don't try to sweet talk me. I know all your tricks now.' James rolled his eyes at Sirius and gave that odd half-grin that between men means _Women, eh?_,before clambering onto the stove and falling through it, as if there was a fireman's pipe there.

Sirius stared at his hands. James had already bloody forgotten. Ever since he got married he did stuff like this. Sirius had thought it cute at first, but-

Merlin, Reg! Regulus Black, yes, Regulus Black was dead. Stone dead. Dead as a doornail. Jeez. A wave came crashing down on Sirius, crushing him. Flashes ran in front of his eyes. Regulus, five, running towards Sirius holding a ball. Eight, making him swear on the Tapestry to write every week. Eleven, glowing sweated relief as he hurried towards his new housemates. How predatory their smiles now seemed! Fourteen, shouting that he had no brother. Sixteen, parading his Mark to the younger Slytherins. Nineteen- no, there would be no nineteen. Shit.

Reg'd been a good little boy. Neat, tidy, obedient. Bloody gullible. James said he'd be proud when his son broke rules- it'd show he thought for himself. Weird though, wasn't it, how the good little boys became bad men. Followed an evil cause 'cause they wanted to please their parents, honour family or some other shit like that. While he himself had been a bad little boy, playing lots of pranks, given a record number of detentions, and he turned out to be an alright guy. He hoped.

It was harder to hate Reg now. 'Cos when the bugger was alive, he could say, well, he's a Death Eater, he hates me, go screw him. But now he was dead, right, he was that toddler with the ruddy cheeks, that Seeker after his first catch, a corpse with haunted eyes. All of 'em. Just as much one as the other.

Was it wrong to mourn for a Death Eater, when Marlene was comatose and the Healers were overworked with countless wounded flooding in? Probably some sort of treachery. But when you're kids, you play together and hide from storms and chase birds and lie to your parents together, and you form a sort of bond, and when you're no longer children, and you hate each other, the bond's still there. It never really goes away. It was okay to mourn, then, because he was mourning for an innocent little boy. Sirius raised his mug of milk as if toasting, and drank. It really was rancid.

Could Regulus have turned out some other way? Lily kept on nagging him to consider his girlfriends' feelings- was it him? If he'd been more kind, more respectful, maybe Reg would be sitting beside him, both of them laughing, neither tattooed, at least not on the forearm. He remembered how before Hogwarts they'd done everything together- they hadn't had much choice, mind. Not many pure playmates in the area. Then, after being Sorted into Gryffindor, Sirius had basically ignored him. He had new friends, better ones which he'd chosen himself, and Regulus was in the wrong. Regulus now thought the most ridiculous things about Muggleborns (which Sirius had quickly dismissed once turning eleven, of course) and couldn't even cast the simplest spell when Sirius could transfigure a matchstick to a needle with ease. Therefore, each holiday Sirius had spent his time cooped up in his room owling his friends, not noticing his brother slip away. If he'd interfered, maybe-

No. Couldn't think like that. Regulus Black was dead, and that was the end to it. Besides, it wasn't his fault, couldn't have been. Brat was doomed as soon as he was sorted into Slytherin. Hat's fault. Spiteful. Or better yet, Snivellus' fault. He had tutored Reg in Potions for half a year. Yes. It was easy to hate Snivellus, that greasy toerag.

* * *

It was pure coincidence that as his brother was trying to contact him, Albus Dumbledore was strolling down to the Hog's Head himself, in order to interview an applicant for the Divination position.

A mere courtesy, to be sure. Professor Dumbledore had never studied Divination himself, and was certain that he saw no benefit in it. True and clear prophecies were rare, and did not come when called, so there was little point in staring into a crystal ball for minutes on end, and little help to his students. However, this candidate was the great-great-granddaughter of the noted Cassandra Trelawney, and Albus had to admit in his heart of hearts that he was oddly curious about the woman, and hoped to be entertained, even if he did wipe the subject from the new curriculum.

The moment that Albus trod on the earthy floor, his vision was obscured by a layer of dust which enveloped his spectacles. Why Aberforth insisted on never cleaning, he did not know. Perhaps goats preferred a dirt floor.

His interviewee was lodging in one of the upstairs rooms, and Professor Dumbledore decided that it would be swifter to call upon her instead of waiting for her to descend at the appointed time. He would knock loudly, of course, and say his name, although, he chuckled, she may have already predicted his early arrival and open the door to him. He hoped not. His supposed celibacy and famous lack of female companionship throughout his life led a lot of naughty tongues to wag at the school, wondering why. Teenagers. He had been the same, before.

She apparently had not foreseen his advent. He knocked, pronounced his name and purpose, then entered.

'Ah, Professor Dumbledore. I Saw that you would come.' Albus Dumbledore widened his eyes as he realised that he was talking to a large, dusty moth. Sybil Trelawney was reasonably young by witching standards (always more harsh than wizarding ones, Albus could never comprehend why), and draped in glass jewellery, which in any other place would have produced a glittering mirage of dazzling light and colour, but here made her look like a recently unearthed Egyptian statue: dust-covered and muted.

'Ms Trelawney, I believe you have applied for the Divination post?' Albus sat on a vacant chair, leaned forward and settled his eyes to give his most encouraging look.

'That would be correct, Professor. The Seeing Eye...' Her voice was forced to give an impression of eeriness, and wavered constantly. It was very boring, and Albus found himself drifting away, though he continued to gaze deeply into the Seer's eyes. After a few minutes of observing the Seer's twitching eyelashes and widening pupils, Albus came to the conclusion that she had no power at all. Her predictions were mundane, trite and anyone with any logic could have foreseen the same. He drew back his chair and started to rise when his applicant started to gasp. Smoke wafted from her lips and her voice was low and guttural.

'_The one with the power to vanquish to Dark Lord approaches ... though born into darkness he shines in the night ... heart of the lord of beasts but in the serpent's house ... the Dark Lord has marked him as a servant, but he has power the Dark Lord knows not ... and one will die at the hand of the other for neither can let the other survive ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord is above this very spot ...'_

There was a loud commotion outside the door. Aberforth was looming over a wretched young man who was trying to convince him that he had come the wrong way up the stairs, his eyes round with guilt, Aberforth having none of it. Albus reflected on what he had just witnessed. How much had the eavesdropper heard? It was Severus Snape there, he knew by the hair, who would undoubtedly report back to his master at the first opportunity. It was now necessary to act with haste.

Albus thanked Sybil Trelawney, who accepted his job offer with the grace of a queen, before exiting the room and turning to his, now Snapeless, brother.

* * *

Severus shook his head as he shuffled out of the pub. He had never expected to hear something like this. But what could it mean? _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord_- well, that was obvious, Severus thought cynically. _Born into darkness he shines in the night ... heart of the lord of beasts _... These pointed towards Sirius Black, the famed Black in Gryffindor. He was even named after a star. Snape sneered as he thought of that man. The Dark Lord was better. At least his talents were respected in the Dark Lord's service.

But _in the serpent's house ... the Dark Lord has marked him as a servant_ ... It was this point at which the youth had been apprehended by the barman, and he had heard no more. These clues pointed to Regulus Black, someone who Severus would never expect any heroics of, though he did hold a certain regard for, since he was reasonably adept at Potions, and enjoyed making up insults for the four special Gryffindors whom they both despised. On the other hand, Severus had received the news from a jubilant Bellatrix that the boy was dead. Was he still the best bet?

Severus was pensive for a moment. If he reported this to the Dark Lord, and suggested that the Dark Lord's information was incorrect, he would suffer, and so would Regulus, later. However, if Regulus Black was not alive, it would be beneficial to gather more intelligence on who the prophecy spoke of, for then he would be much more favoured.

Severus accepted Regulus' death. There was no use in weeping and tearing out hair- the boy was dead. Moving on was survival. But if he was alive, and hypothetically could defeat the Dark Lord, to be in the know would be to be at an advantage, whether he helped the youth or betrayed him. This was logical, and Severus knew about logical. Potions were logical. Curses were logical. Loyalty was not logical- it only caused unnecessary pain.

Emotions were a factor, Severus accepted that, turning the idea over in his head. It was true that, after a raid, he would occasionally vomit, or see his victims' faces in his dreams. But that was perfectly normal.

A trip to Grimmauld Place was in order then. Severus would drop in on Regulus (ordinary for a friend to visit another) to ask him how his health was and whether he felt particularly powerful today, or to retrieve the body.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Hog's Head on the 24th of May

Albus Dumbledore leant over the unconscious drunk with unease, his mind racing. He peered more critically at the stricken figure, conjuring up memories of their few interactions. A former Slytherin, but ambition was a fine lever when persuading individuals to act for the Greater Good. A Death Eater, so he must have some talent, or else young Tom would have eliminated him for incompetence. Had he not heard of this Regulus' death? The boy's obvious vitality showed that he had some survival skills, at least. This could work. As dawn's rays lit up the threadbare carpet on the top floor of his brother's residence, Albus allowed himself a snidget of hope.

* * *

The new day brought an unpleasant relief to Antonin Dolohov, as it reminded him that he must rouse, and could not tarry in the bed of the delightful Ariadne Travers. The songs of the birds on the tree outside her window were never more unwelcome. He bent his elbows to lift himself, and gazed down at his girlfriend's pale eyebrows.

Life was good. Life was- what was his mother's word? Ah, yes. _Kellemes_. He had always loved to hear her speak before he went to Hogwarts, in the harshly dulcet tones of the old language. She would sing songs of dark forests and evil times, and his puerile back would straighten as he readied himself to fight invisible enemies. Most of all, he loved to hear stories about his father.

The Dolohovs had been one of the finest pureblood families in Hungary, and had lived in a grand house built in the Austrian manner. However, as Gellert Grindelwald gained power, they, and some other pureblood families in that country, spoke out against his policies. The re-education camps, the pact with that Austrian Muggle madman- this was not a glorious revival of wizarding pride, but a misuse of great power that used to be in better hands- namely, the pureblood aristocrats. Antonin's grandfather, Wilhelm, was transported to a're-education' camp. The family fell silent.

Wilhelm's son, Andor, decided to rebel. Always a firebrand, from the age of eleven he organised sabotage and the persecution of the Grindelwald Young Guards and the White Terror. Under the orders of the Wizarding Dark Retaliation (the Varázsló Sötét Megtorlás, or VSM), he forged papers for Jewish wizards and witches, as the portraits of his ancestors watched in his father's manor. When war broke out he rejoiced and ran down seven streets to inform Eszter Fodor, who would always look down at her son at this part of the story and smile, as that was the moment she fell in love.

During the war, although the Hungarian Wizardry officially allied itself with the Deathmaster, there were factions that secretly published newsletters, smuggled fugitives and listened to the Wizarding Wireless from Great Britain. Oh, those nights in Eszter's teens, huddled in an ancient unused basement with Andor, late after the curfew, waiting, waiting for the British to come. Waiting for Albus Dumbledore.

Their country regained its pride in 1944, and the magical part turned away from Grindelwald, seeking a treaty with the Allied countries. Then, oh! Grindelwald occupies Hungary! Blond hard-faced men marching down the enchanted alleyways. Eszter's father and mother taken- Andor's mother welcomed her. The Soviets are coming! Fighting in the streets, Andor's first kill as a nationless soldier tried to- Eszter would pause and wince at her son, this was too old for his ears- do something very bad to her.

The news arrived that the Briton Albus Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald. Andor wept and held Eszter. His father was dead, his mother weakened and his noble family name in tatters. But there was a better world. With only seventeen years behind him, Andor bent down on one knee and asked Eszter to help him rebuild, to be with him forever.

Antonin shook his head to release these memories, and gently stroked Ariadne's hair. Her breathing slowed, but she did not rouse. Perhaps, yes, perhaps soon he would ask her. She was pureblood, sensible and kind. This started out as a romp, Antonin mused. A few drinks, a few boasts which she charmingly professed to believe. All to bed. But months pass, and now Antonin turned to his Ari for comfort, support, and occasionally cakes, as her house-elf had a knowledge of secret recipes which boggled him. He wanted her to be his wife, to bear his children. His life was dangerous- why not seize the day?

* * *

The weather was far better here than in Scotland, or Accrington, Lily mused as she trailed a long finger along her abdomen. The warmth of the sun induced the memory of summer. James was with Sirius, which was perfectly fine, and dear Bathilda had visited the day before, with many interesting stories. She lived in a comfortable home, with a loving husband who was bowlegged with brass. Yes, her life was right on track.

Who was she kidding? Life was bleeding dull! She sat around in a big house all day, waiting for James, and then when he comes home, he's off again. It's not like she had anything better to do, no job, couldn't even fight as she was pregnant. And all these dull women, clucking around her, either old and patronising, or young and oh so smiley twenty-four seven. None of them her friends, dear me no dear. All of them James' friends, the kind cookie women who watched him grow up, and the wives-and-girlfriends of his Order members. She was part of the Order, nominally, but all the info was 'need to know', and apparently, as she was currently unable to fight, she didn't 'need to know'.

This was the path she had chosen. Perhaps she was ungrateful- 'Bread eaten is soon forgotten,' as her mother used to say. But then her mother said so many other things; that she was special, smart, that hers was the generation in which 'new women' could really make something of themselves. 'Times a'changin'. Had she failed? What she feared- especially now with this miracle growing inside her- was a lazy life, a cage, never being stretched, never challenged, her intelligence disregarded. She had worked so hard at school and now it felt like it was for nothing. What she wouldn't _give_ for a calm intellectual discussion, on the use of coriander in antidotes, or widdershins stirring to quicken magical reactions. Boring, boring, dull dull dull existence!

How different the life she had dreamt of was. She was going to shatter glass ceilings, and prove she could succeed on her own terms- a partner in a self-made potions company. Not that the child inside her wasn't totally worth devoting her entire life to, as James expected, of course. But she was barely twenty.

James wouldn't return for hours. Evidently Black was going through some sort of emotional crisis. Dunderhead.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: If you don't know that everyone knows that this isn't mine, then you're not intelligent enough to file a successful copyright suit against me. NOT MINE!

Chapter 6: Grimmauld Place on the 24th of May

A loud crash and a sharp pain in his shoulder alerted Severus to the fact that in his abrupt attempt to straighten his back after leaving the fireplace, he had knocked a small but pointy (and knowing the Black family, disproportionately expensive) ornament off the mantelpiece. The large drawing room was seemed completely empty of human life, and a quick 'Homenum Revelio' confirmed that.

The Black's drawing-room was an airy space emphasised by the high ceiling and walls of grey silk. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn wide so that the morning sun lit up the silver threads on the infamous Tapestry. Severus moved impulsively towards it and traced the shining ribbons with his index finger. Here, a Rosier, here a Peverell, here a Prince...

Severus turned away briskly; a dash of envy pinked his cheeks. He walked to the large cabinet and started to admire the ornaments there, struggling to distract himself. A music-box encrusted with emeralds caught his eye, and he began to drown itself within its glittering green depths.

A loud _crack_ from behind broke his stupor. He turned, alarmed, and drew his wand to face his attacker. A house-elf. Severus lowered his wand and breathed out.

'Dirty Half-Blood in the house of my master!' The house-elf- Kreacher- jumped up at Severus, brandishing a kitchen knife. The resemblance to the humble servant who had served him tea a month (wasn't it?) ago was minimal. Snape sneered at the elf and received a nick on his hand for his trouble. He stood back. The elf continued to shout foul phrases while hopping up and down and waving the long knife. Snape managed to interpret a few-, 'stay hidden- defend the house!', 'my poor Master', 'nasty sneaking Muggle's brat'.

'I am looking for your Master,' Snape spoke clearly, with no trace of an accent. His attempt to exhibit patrician disdain missed the mark and he instead appeared overly haughty. A quick curse was muttered under his breath.

'My Master is not here! Go away!' Severus wondered what could have caused this elf to lose its respect for wizardkind. The last time he had visited, it had treated him cordially, as one of Regulus' friends. Now elf twitched its shoulders and its large eyes jerked in different directions, as if afraid to focus on one space. The fresh tea-towel that it wore as a loin-cloth was stained with blood. Severus decided to try a different tack.

'I am one of Regulus' friends, if you will recall. I am very concerned for his welfare.' Though it pained him to speak so to an elf, Severus was encouraged as the knife lowered and Kreacher's eyes slowed. The elf blinked. Severus pressed his point. 'I want to help Regulus.'

'The half-blood wants to help my Master?' Though Severus took affront at being called 'half-blood' he tried not to show it.

'Yes, but I do not know where he is. I would like to help him, but I cannot do so if I do not know where he is.' Severus said all of this very slowly.

'Kreacher knows Master needs help. Master is not himself.' The elf looked uncertain. Severus knelt so that their faces were level. Dear Merlin, what had he gotten himself into? This was for power, respect, knowledge- when, naturally, he informed the Dark Lord. The elf must have seen something in his face as it relaxed and dropped the knife, which fell onto the carpet with a dull _thump_.

'Master went to the Hog's Head.' Kreacher's snout-like nose wrinkled, showing his disapproval of that establishment. 'Master ordered Kreacher to stay hidden and defend the house.'

'Thank you.' So, Regulus lived. And at the Hog's Head- they must have been there at the same time. How far down the rabbit hole should he go before reporting this matter?

* * *

The new drawing room was not as pale as the Black one, but certainly as ornate, and far larger. The deep purple matched beautifully with the carved mahogany table and ornate new portrait-frames. Narcissa glanced at herself in the great mirror which surmounted the Italian marble fireplace and triumphed. Her complexion, pearly, her dress, elegant, her re-decorating, magnificent.

She felt Draco perform a somersault within her. How marvellous, that a babe, this moment, grew within her. How splendid that soon she would be able to hold him, for though she treasured her pregnancy, she did want to regain her figure as soon as possible, and she wanted to examine her son's fingernails and hair. Whose eyes did he have, Lucius' or hers?

The choosing of the godparents would be difficult. Bellatrix, as her sister, was an obvious choice for godmother, but though she loved her sister dearly, Cissy knew that Bella was not the maternal sort, and might find the appointment not worth her time. Mrs Parkinson was a possibility. She had a daughter, not a year old, and well, it was never too early to start thinking of these things. The choice for godfather, luckily, was clearer.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed as the roaring fire greened and her husband stepped out. 'Lucius!'

'Narcissa.' He looked tired. 'You are well?'

'Yes, wonderful, and-'

'The child?' He spoke briskly.

'Perfect.'

'Perhaps you had better sit down.' Narcissa drew a chair and slowly lowered herself, careful not to jilt the baby.

'Whatever is it, love? There is something terrible in your face.'

'It is your cousin, Regulus. He's...' Lucius broke off, uncertain. He had been fond of the lad himself, but that was nothing compared to Cissy's affection for who she considered a close sibling.

'Don't say it.' Narcissa interrupted him. 'Don't. I don't want to hear.' She pressed her lips together to prevent her eyes from dampening. Lucius found himself uncommonly surprised and impressed by her steel.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Why do I even bother anymore? Everyone knows it's not mine. Please forgive my feeble attempt to write humour.

Chapter 7: Sirius' flat on the 24th of May, around 2.00pm.

Good thing James had come round earlier, thought Sirius as he finished the draft balance sheet for the (presumed) amount of money the Dark Lord had acquired from his supporters the last half-year, with the new knowledge that the Rosier's had donated far more since their son's death at the hands of Alastor Moody. James had taken the milk carton off him. Got him out of his funk.

The great thing about complex Arithmancy was that it required all of your concentration to perform. Not that he chose to take it for N.E.W.T because of that, though. Loads of hot Ravenclaw chickies in that class.

Sirius felt pretty grateful that James had set him something to do for the Order. Pity he had to leave so quickly, though. Lily wanted him close by.

A shimmering gold bird flew into his room and circled the ceiling three times before sitting at the end of Sirius' desk and peering into his face. The presence of it warmed Sirius in a place where he had forgotten he was freezing. Its eyes were a piercing blue and seemed to gaze deep within him. It spoke in Dumbledore's voice, a flat tone.

'Come to my office immediately. Inform no-one.'

* * *

'I fear I have some difficult news for you concerning your brother.' Sirius leant back, avoiding the old man's eyes. He focused his attention on a small gilded object that resembled a small hedgehog, which periodically gave off a puff of blue smoke and tried to wish away the excruciating awkwardness of the situation. He gave a small nod to the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, who was glaring disapprovingly at him.

'It's alright Professor, I already know.' Sirius spoke as if each word was being forcibly dragged from him. His answer seemed to shock the Professor. Dumbledore leaned forward and widened his eyes. They seemed to be less penetrating and pensive, instead filled with worry. When he responded it sounded like his breathing had become painful.

'How?'

'Bellatrix Lestrange.' Sirius' face screwed up with disgust. 'She told me.'

'They know already?'

'It's not- not exactly a secret.' Sirius idly wondered if Dumbledore was having a 'senior' moment. 'I told you he was dead at the de-briefing.'

'Ah. Well, I may have a surprise for you, my dear boy.' Dumbledore was smiling gently now. Sirius was worried. 'He's in the room behind us.'

'His body?'

'No. Your brother, alive, is in the room through this door.'

'!'

_(The rest of the conversation has been deleted due to its exuberant use of profanity.)_

* * *

Regulus' arm was stretched out, and his mouth was slimy with vomit. One sleeve was rolled up, exposing a nasty wound. Sirius' eyes darted around his little brother frantically. He knelt, and placed his palm on the youth's forehead, as if to remind himself that he was real. The warm pulse reassured him as he felt his eyes moisten and the sides of his mouth twitch upwards. 'He's- he's really-' Sirius looked up at Dumbledore, grinning from ear to ear.

'Yes.' The headmaster's voice was grave. 'However, there is something I must inform you of.' Sirius, for the first time since he entered, swept his eyes across the room. Unlike the professor's office, this private room appeared to be mostly uncluttered, though painted in pale pastels. Several bookcases covered three of the walls, one stuffed with newspapers, and another filled with what, to Sirius' eyes, were very Dark-looking books. There was a portrait on the other wall of a young family of five, all with piercing blue eyes. In the centre of the room was a low lilac ottoman, where his brother was lying now.

'What? What could be- I mean,' Sirius stopped babbling, and, still grinning, began to stroke his brother's hair. A low, Firewhiskey-pungent snore escaped Regulus' lips.

'Young Regulus has been asleep since early this morning. I would have woken him, but I considered it more prudent to, ah, encourage his tiredness until I could put some of my affairs in order.' A pink pouffe slid forward to seat Dumbledore, and he sat. 'I'm afraid he is now in very great danger.' Sirius' smile faltered somewhat. 'Lone ex-Death Eaters are, and this boy possesses information which would greatly help our cause.' Regulus wriggled his chest in his slumber, and a locket slipped out from beneath his cloak. Dumbledore paid it no mind, and turned to Sirius instead. 'He should sleep for a little longer. I would appreciate it if you could take him to your residence, and inform me when he wakes.'

Sirius gripped Regulus' arm. 'I don't know whether to kiss him or kill him.'

'I would prefer you not to kill him. After all, he has left the Death Eaters.'

'I don't think- it'd be better if he went to James' house, it's more protected. James wouldn't mind. And it's bigger. Remus and Peter are around all the time so if a Death Eater came, there'd be four of us protecting.' Sirius paused, and spoke more coherently. 'Sir, am I allowed to tell James and Remus and Peter and Lily what you've told me?'

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, 'Yes, I think Mr Potter, Mr Lupin, Mr Pettigrew and Mrs Potter have proved themselves trustworthy. But, Mr Black, I am going to ask you to ask them not repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around of Regulus' survival.'

As Sirius gently lifted his brother's body, Albus sighed. Regulus' right hand slipped out of Sirius' wrist, showing his injury. The wound was not straight, as it would have been if the thin strip of flesh had been ripped off in one go, but jagged, as if it had been tugged at several times from different directions. As Albus turned his head away from the pair, he thought it resembled a lightning bolt.

* * *

Please review, and tell me which character you'd like to see some more of next. Remember, if I don't know what's wrong with my story, I can't make it better. I can't find a beta.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, please let me play a little longer, JK, I promise I'll be good.

Chapter Eight: Godric's Hollow, around tea-time

James arrived back home earlier than usual, his friend Peter by his side. Let's see, he'd given Sirius those numbers to work through, gone over to Moody's- Mundungus Fletcher had no new news about Knockturn happenings. Dumbledore hadn't set him any more assignments that day, so he'd checked up on Wormtail, who he'd invited round to his house. James was a bit worried about Wormy- he'd seemed off lately. Maybe there was a girl. Or he was mourning- there was always someone new to mourn, now. Or his old mum, again. Little Petey's mum seemed to be ill on and off weeks on end.

James playfully nudged Peter on the shoulder and grinned before reaching up to the doorknocker. It would be nice to be with Lily, in his home, his child inside her. It had kicked the day before. Lily. The girl he'd fought for, for so long, now his, his, marked with his child. _His_ little family. If only Dad could see him, soon to be a dad himself.

Peter did seem really rather down, his button eyes staring at the welcome mat. Due to the smaller man's size, James could only see the top of Peter's head. Hopefully it was a girl. It'd be good for the chap.

It was rather chilly, and no-one had yet opened the door. James did so himself, to a very irritated wife.

'Your friend and his- he won't explain it to me- they're in the sitting room. They arrived at two and he told me to leave.'

'Padfoot? He's here?'

'Aren't you going to say anything to him for talking to me like that? And who's with him, anyway? This is my house!'

'Lily-flower...' James quickly moved to the left. Lily did the same, and they performed a short jig, moving from side to side, until James managed to slip past her and made his way to the sitting-room.

Sirius' black silhouette was crouched over the squashy red sofa, which had been dragged into the middle of the room. On it was a dark-haired young man, slender, wearing a dirty blue cloak speckled with droplets of vomit and drool. His garments were made of expensive cloth. James stared. The youth's face was obscured by Sirius' body, and very much unlike himself, Sirius would run his fingers through the young man's thick hair, and wipe the area around his mouth with a napkin. James coughed, embarrassed.

'Prongs!' Sirius twisted and yelped the greeting.

'Pads.... what are you doing?'

'Reg's alive! He's alive, and he's here, and Dumbledoresays he needs to be safe.' Sirius' enthusiasm now turned to worry. 'He can't die now, can he? He's alive, can you believe it?'

James was worried. During Hogwarts, Sirius was usually dismissive of his brother, and until receiving news of his death, rarely spoke of him. His uncharacteristic zest was unsettling.

Peter had arrived, and stared at the scene. Lily followed, leant against a wall and glared. 'Could you explain now we are all here?'

James winced at the unspoken implication. Moony couldn't be a spy, of course, but no-one could risk it. Poor guy had been left out of private conversations for months now. Damned war.

'He's alive!'

'That's lovely, Sirius, but why is a Death Eater in my house? Why do so many people think that he's dead? Why has Professor Dumbledore taken an interest in him?' Lily was beginning to enjoy herself. This was almost as good as perfecting a potion- any book could provide answers, giving the properties of herbs and entrails and so forth, the clever trick was in asking the right questions, seeing the way to finding the solution, with clarity.

* * *

_(A few hours later, the kitchen in Godric's Hollow)_

'H-he's going to be alright, right Prongs?' James looked at Wormtail. He was tentatively chewing a fingernail, as the two set the table. Lily was upstairs, fetching the glasses which they had needed after hearing Sirius' tale. Sirius still refused to leave his brother's side. It was slightly obsessive, but forgivable, considering the circumstances.

'Sure, it was only a Sleeping Draught. He should wake soon.'

'Will he- I mean- will he be forgiven? For following- well You-Know-Who- and all?' Peter's pinched face was anxious. 'He's not bad- he doesn't look bad- anyone can make a mistake, right?'

James felt a sudden spell of warmth for his friend. Wormy had such a good heart. Putting his arm around his companion, he squeezed him and said, 'I'm sure everything will work out for the best.'

Unexpectedly, Peter shrunk away and curled in on himself. 'I've got to go,' he said, and made to leave.

'Go, now? But you must stay for supper, I need someone sane with me.'

'It's the time- I promised my mother I'd be home soon. Yes, I promised.' Peter's eyes darted around. He really did look fearful. James was concerned, but unsurprised. Peter's mother had been sick somehow, for several weeks. Wormy didn't like to talk about it, but he often needed to dash off to see her.

She must really be bad, James thought. Poor Wormtail couldn't lose another parent, not with how he took his father's death. Plus, they didn't need another orphan in the Marauders. With a bit of luck, she'd get better, and Peter would perk up again.

Wormy wasn't smart, or particularly brave. But he was sweet, in all senses of the word, James reflected, as he finished laying out the forks.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not mine. I've been planning to update for a very long time now, but every time I try to write the Reguluswakesup scene, I get writer's block. I honestly have very little idea how he would react. Advice welcome. Sorry about the short chapter, but until Regulus wakes up the story can't advance much.

Chapter 9: A graveyard

Snape apparated into the clearing, and stood a few metres away from the Dark Lord. Around him, dark ribbons were diving into the earth, then rising and reforming into the cloaked silhouettes of his colleagues. They formed a circle.

Severus glanced around. There were two gaps, as yet unfilled. When a Death Eater died, none of the others would stand in their place, though positions changed due to status often enough. They would remain empty until new men were recruited.

Another graveyard, this one old, the tombstones cracked and covered in moss and trailing greenery. The grass was long, and a plant adorned with sticky hooks caught his robe. The small church a little way away was made of granite with a blue tinge. It was night, but the clouds, lit up by a nearby town, caused all the flowers to look grey.

The Dark Lord turned his head, and Severus looked away. This appeared to be deference, but a lack of eye contact aided Occlumency greatly.

'You are troubled.' The Dark Lord spoke calmly, but there was an edge to his voice. 'Lord Voldemort smells your fear, yes, and your guilt. The stench of it is abhorrent.' He glided into the centre of the gathering and turned, so that he looked at every single one of his followers.

'Speak, and the Lord may be merciful.' None did, though a short man to the left of Severus started to shudder.

'We find ourselves bothered by recent events. My spies at the Ministry-' the Dark Lord flapped a hand, the symbol of dismissing that which is unimportant, 'have informed me that Crouch,' his voice became a hiss, 'has gained permission for Aurors to cast Unforgivables.' Several members stood straighter, surprised. Each remembered Rosier's recent death.

'We have nothing to fear from this. The Ministry is weak, and will soon fall. This is its last stand at the gates. A demonstration is in order. Tonight. We will attack Diagon Alley.'

One of the Death Eaters, tall, with blonde hair that spilled out of his hood, started. 'Diagon Alley? That's one of the most protected streets in Britain. Aurors will-'

'Enough.' Lord Voldemort quieted him with a finger. 'In this battle I will fight myself.' This was unusual, Snape mused. Better not to muse too long. The Dark Lord's motivations were his own. 'At midnight we will attack. I expect you all to be there. You are dismissed. Except-' His eyes, a pulsing red, quickened the heart of every man there.

This was it, Severus thought. He would be asked about his doings, and he would reply, truthfully and fully. Anything else would be foolishness. The pang of guilt was nothing to the Cruciatus curse. He opened his mouth to speak.

'You.' Lord Voldemort pointed to the short man who had been shaking earlier. 'You have information.'

'Noth-nothing special, my lord.' The man tried to bow his head.

'Do not attempt to lie to Lord Voldemort, for he always knows.'

'I'm not lying- Dumbledore hasn't told me anything, I swear.'

'Hush.' The Dark Lord pulled back the man's hood, and Severus turned to look, catching sight of small, fat man with mousy hair. Voldemort pressed his wand to the man's crown. The short man's body hung from it like dirty washing from a peg and pearly strings twisted and untwisted about the wand, running from man to man. Voldemort drew back, a frown crossing his brow.

The released prisoner shrank and bent. He looked around, but his colleagues avoided his gaze. He threw himself on the ground, and kissed his master's robes.

'I'm so sorry! Please, please forgive me...'

'Enough. You still have use for me.' The Dark Lord turned away. The man's small face lit up as if it had seen the twinkling of the Fairy of Hope.

Severus looked away. Bloke wasn't even important enough for anyone to bother to kill him.

Author's note: I pity Peter, because I doubt he joined the DEs out of malice. As to the Secret-Keeper betrayal thing, how could someone with no Occlumency keep secrets from the Dark Lord? In the film, when he wails 'I didn't mean to!' I believe him. I interpret his character as weak, but (at this point in his life) not incredibly evil, if a bit avoid any confusion, Voldemort was forcefully extracting memories.


End file.
